


Chronicles of a (Retired) Master Hit-Wizard

by haltedtacos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Harry Has Issues, Kidnapping, Retired Harry Potter, Wizengamot Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-10
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-06-25 14:26:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15642612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haltedtacos/pseuds/haltedtacos
Summary: He has a wonderful wife, and a perfect son. He appreciates his job, and the clamor in his head is only annoying on the worst of days. He had thought that finally, after so long, he would have a happy ending.Looking back on it, Harry really ought to have known better.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> I (still) don't own Harry Potter. Sadly.

The nightmares don’t end after the war.

They intensify.

Because his hands jitter unless they are aiming a wand at someone, and his body tenses whenever he is not in a duel, he joins the Hit-Wizards right out of Hogwarts.

The Aurors don’t scratch the itch quite right.

He returns home just before dawn, blood splattered robes concealing a worn body littered with bruises. He falls into bed without changing, and rises several hours later to return to work. He has lost weight, has not seen his friends in weeks, and cannot remember the last thing he did that did not involve death.

He has never smiled more.

He spends his days in the corner of dimly light parlors, dusky bars frequented by all types of unsavories. He slips poisons into cocktails and knives into backs and he has never felt more _alive._

It is state-sanctioned murder.

It is his salvation.

The papers describe him as a hero, the boy bred to be the wizarding world’s avenging angel. He signs autographs and shakes hands and pretends he does his job for the good of the people. He marches criminals to their end in front of flashing bulbs, features set in a determined stare.

He has never had to fight so hard to hold back a smile.

As the days go on and his body count racks up, as his name becomes something to be feared, a threat whispered in the dead of night, he falls farther and farther into the clamor of his mind. Most days he cannot hear over the screeching din that beats a merciless racket inside his skull. He thinks that maybe he has finally tipped, gone over the edge that was his remaining sanity.

He checks himself into a mental ward.

It is there he meets his angel, a blonde haired bombshell clad in white healer robes. Through his medicated haze he asks her if it hurt when she fell from heaven. She asks if it hurt when he fell from sanity.

He thinks he might be in love.

As the days whirl by he grows better. The din fades, and the racket becomes a dull thud. His angel is ever present, and he likes to think that he is not imagining the smiles sent his direction. The day he is released, he asks her for a date.

She says yes.

One date turns to two, turns to five, turns to favorite meeting places and meeting her parents, shared apartments close to an apparition point but not too far from that _darling_ tea shop down the road. He says ‘I love you’ and means it, and _believes_ her when she says the same.

He calls her salvation. She calls him gratuitous. He doesn’t mind.

Their wedding is in the spring, and truthfully he wouldn’t be able to tell how nice it was. All he can remember is her in white, like the day they met, except this time she is pledging to love him for all her days. He has trouble believing this is not an elaborate dream brought about by a lack of sleep. He pinches himself. Hard.

He is not dreaming.

He frames the picture of them from the paper the next morning. When she asks why he chose that one over all the professional ones they had done, he does not answer. He cannot find the words to express that this is the first picture in so long that has him looking genuinely, candidly happy. Instead he tells her he likes the way she is the dominant force in the photograph. He feels less guilty for lying when she smiles.

He retires from the Hit-Wizards with much fanfare. He is awarded (another) Order of Merlin, despite his spirited protests. The ceremony does give him a chance to espy his wife in a particularly fetching red dress, however, so perhaps he doesn’t really mind.

Instead, he takes up a life of politics. He finds that arguing with old men about cauldron bottom thickness in the Wizengamot is perhaps not his ideal career path, but he has found his salvation. He does not need to be a heralder of death to find peace.

When they find themselves parents of a squealing little boy seasons later, he weeps. He is alarmed at first, before he remembers that once upon a time his eyes were used for more than reading legislature or espionage.

He has a wonderful wife, and a perfect son. He appreciates his job, and the clamor in his head is only annoying on the worst of days. His life is supposed to be happy. He had thought that finally, after so long, he would have a happy ending.  
Looking back on it, Harry _really_ ought to have known better.


	2. Today is (Not) an Ordinary Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...he allows himself, just for a moment, to slip back into the clamor that used to be his constant companion. Slowing to a stop in the field behind the house, green grass just brushing his knees, he returns to the mindset of the famed hit-wizard he used to be.
> 
> Kill. Defend. Kill."

“And so, fellow peers, it is clear to see that the wording of motion #42B3W is not only cantankerous, but fundamentally flawed, and if falls to us as champions of the good people of the wizarding world to-”

Above the balding man huffing his way through a spirited tirade against the minutia of some law or other would normally be a congregation of statuesque wizards and witches. On any other day, these powerhouses would be conferring in quiet corners, beginning blood feuds and birthing alliances all in the same heavy breath. Ordinarly, the heart of the wizarding world rings out its tremendous beat within these marble walls.

Ordinarly, the centermost seat of the chamber is occupied by a raven-haired man.

Today is not an ordinary day.

Instead, the sand colored chair lies untouched, the recipient of suspicious glances from the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, its usual occupant conspicuously absent. Unknown to those within the chamber, their young colleague, one Harry James Potter, finds himself rather preoccupied with matters far more important than the particulars of motion #42B3W. Instead, he runs like a man possessed, bounding and leaping his way through molasses moving people and missives alike. He whirls up flights of stairs and down tortuorous halls, sure feet pounding the tiled ground in a staccato rhythm.

 

Those who are witness to his mad dash cannot help but compare it to the days just after the war’s end, when dark wizards ran rampant and raids were conducted on every corner.

 

It is an eerie sight.

 

The man is fazed not a whit at reaching the dead end that is the atrium. Without slowing down he spins elegantly on one loafer clad foot, winking away from the marble tiled room in an instant. He reappears outside of a stately house, bolting up the gravel lined drive to an oaken door bearing a gilded letter ‘P’.

 

Poised to attack, he nudges open the door. Stepping inside wearily, wand tip glowing a menacing red, Harry scans the foyer left in disarray by unseen intruders, emerald eyes assessing every nook and cranny. Pressing his back flat against the cream colored walls, he slinks toward the winding staircase stationed in the center of the room. 

A sickening thud, like that of a skull hitting a hard surface, sounds from above.

Moving silently, Harry steals up the stairs. Shuffling past strewn clothes and shards of glass from broken photographs, he pauses at the top of the stairway. Further down the hall, standing guard outside a periwinkle blue door is a bearded wizard. Next to him lies the grey haired body of a stout woman, bleeding profusely from a head wound. Only the slight undulation of her chest assures Harry that his son’s nurse is alive. The man, well-worn grey robes stretched tight around his portly middle, raises a swishy wand in Harry’s direction, and is cut down by a swathe of sickly red light before he can finish enunciating a cutting curse.

Stalking forward into the room, he raises a hasty shield against the ‘bombarda’ aimed at his legs. Summoning the changing table from where it rests against a sky blue wall, he banishes it towards a scar-faced man; who, while managing to duck the diaper covered surface, cannot avoid the stake that had previously made up the back of a now dilapidated rocking chair. The cutting curse of a long haired woman rips a gash through his violet wizengamot robes and down his abdomen. He ducks underneath a copy of the “Tales of Beedle the Bard” banished towards his raven haird head, and in his brief moment of distraction, the woman hurries to guide a lanky man out of the window.

The sharp cry of terror sourced from the blonde haired tot bundled in the man's arms jolts Harry out of his stupor like a lighting bolt.

Scrambling down the trellis positioned just under the window, he sets off after the pair scuttling across the palatial grounds of the manor. Twisting and turning around beams of scarlet light, he hurtles after the two, careful to avoid hitting the bobbing blonde head of the boy still visible over the man's thin shoulder as he returns fire.

As they approach the property line of the house, he grows desperate. Should the captors make it to the edge of the wards, they will be able to apparate away, taking with the them the fragile scion of House Potter. Mouth set in a determined line, he allows himself, just for a moment, to slip back into the clamor that used to be his constant companion. Slowing to a stop in the field behind the house, green grass just brushing his knees, he returns to the mindset of the famed hit-wizard he used to be.

Kill. Defend. Kill.

Emerald eyes glowing fiercely, he transfigures a rock ahead of the duo rapidly fading into the distance. The stone glows red hot, before growing to form a low wall, only about a foot in length. The man, still clutching the child in his arms for dear life, barely manages to clear the wall, slowing down just in time to leap over it and continue running. His partner, however, is not so lucky, and careens full force into the barricade, tumbling over it and landing face first into the soft dirt below. In the seconds she takes to lift herself from the ground, she is downed again, this time by a glowing purple spell. Suddenly gnarled hands raise to inspect a face now decrepit, felled by the hands of time in an instant.

Kill. Defend. Kill.

Stalking forward he advances towards the now panting man still pursuing the ward line. The toddler in his arms wriggles weakly back and forth, trying in vain to free himself. Harry raises his wand again. Tracing an obscure path through the cloudless sky, he watches in cold amusement as hundreds of winged blue creatures descend from seemingly nowhere, converging on the narrow man in an insurmountable swarm.

Kill. Defend. Kill.

Almost instinctively, the man raises his arms to defend himself, letting the small child nestled within them fall to the grass carelessly. Instantaneously, Harry banishes the pixies, green eyes widened in concern for the boy on the ground. The strange man, no longer plagued by little scourges, frowns in confusion, seemingly wondering at why the blonde was not immediately retrieved by his father with a simple summoning charm.

Seeing Harry, sprinting to collect his child, comprehension dawns across his face. He heaves the boy back into his vice grip.

“Slow there, Potter.” The man growls, wand raised towards not the father, but the son. “You’re going to let the both of us go nicely, now, or I’ll have to do a little magic on the little one now, won’t I?” He nods triumphantly when Harry lowers his wand hesitantly. “That’s it now, slow n’ steady.” Back towards the approaching forest, he steps slowly towards the edge of the field, nearly spluttering in disbelief when Harry does not attempt to follow. 

The man takes the final step over the ward line, and promptly disapparates, blonde haired boy in tow. Harry falls to the ground where he stands, a steady racket beating against his skull. No matter how hard he closes his eyes, he cannot shake the image of his tiny (too tiny, always too tiny) son, emerald eyes identical to his own staring mournfully back at him.

Today is anything but ordinary.

 

If you asked someone who knew her to describe Daphne Potter nee Greengrass, they would tell you she is best illustrated with one word.

Tempestuous.

She is a whirlwind of her own making, a hurricane that leaves all who witness her in awe.

The best place to witness the storm that is Daphne is, by far, on the third floor of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Here, she leads the plants and poison ward with pinpoint precision, white robes aflutter as she bustles from room to room, administering antidotes and reversing death like the angel some liken her to. Some time ago, she fluttered about the Mental Health ward in a similar fashion, assessing damage and prescribing smiles as if her life depended on it. She had been working up the nerve to transfer when a certain green eyed hit-wizard stumbled into her life.

Everyday since than, she rejoices when they do not meet in a tiny room reeking of antiseptic.

Ordinarily, Daphne would be in fine form on the third floor. She would waltz from room to room, checking charts and vitals and tongues, humming muggle showtunes over a gurgling cauldron one minute, only to stitch back together an esophagus torn apart by a particularly ornery magical plant the next. 

Today is not an ordinary day.

Instead, Daphne fumbles from room to room, double and triple checking the same chart over and over. She spills hot coffee on her pristine robes and explodes a cauldron while making a simple pepper-up potion.

Something is very, very wrong.

She just can’t put her finger on it.

She is almost relieved when the workday ends and she hurries home to find her husband in the living room, for once not surrounded by copious piles of paperwork.

Or at least, she would be, were her living room not currently populated by a contingent of grim faced aurors. 

Masking her confusion with a megawatt smile, she steps further into the cream colored room, bypassing the violet robed wizards to stand beside her solemn faced husband. 

“Hal, what in Merlin’s good name is going on?” She hisses while looking towards the aurors, brilliant beam still affixed to her face. Harry doesn’t meet her eyes, instead leading (more like dragging) her to one of the only armchairs left standing in the battered room. Absently, Daphne wonders if a duel took place in her previously immaculate home. He sits her down gently before falling into the chair next to her, callused hands coming up to cradle his head.

Something is very, very wrong.

Still, she doesn’t know quite what.

From within the bundle of aurors steps forth a tall platinum blonde, high end dragonhide heeled boots sinking into the soft carpet as he walks. Daphne’s smile falls from her face. Normally a visit from her brother-in-law would be no special occasion. He would annoy Daphne, and bemoan Harry leaving him all alone on the Hit-Wizard task force, before eating their food and leaving without so much as a ‘thank you’.

But today is not an ordinary day.

Instead, Draco is the picture of professionalism, grey eyes crinkled in sympathy as he recounts the story that rips Daphne’s heart to pieces. He does not trade joking barbs with Harry as he comforts his broken wife, blood soaked shirt becoming further irreparable with her tears. He refrains from purposely using technical jargon only Harry would understand to annoy his sister-in-law as Daphne scrambles to comprehend the world that was only minutes ago perfect.

Her baby is out there in the world, lost and alone and so, so defenseless  
At least she’s figured out what’s wrong.

 

 

When Harry and Draco step away from the nearly catatonic Daphne, he does not hold back from embracing the man. The hug he returns is weak, though better than nothing. Short of finding his missing child, this is the best Draco can do to help him.

He is not surprised when Harry pulls back, face set in a determined stare. He leads him to a richly appointed office, barely giving him a moment to seat himself before he reverts to the Hit-Wizard Harry he is proud to call his brother-in-law.

Harry paces across the oak floor. “There are several people with motive to do this.” He starts, tugging and twisting his black hair in thought. (Draco had tried relentlessly to get him to stop the habit when they were on the force, to no avail.) “Countless people from the underbelly of the wizarding world would sell their own mothers for a chance to get back at me. I’ve made more than a few enemies in the wizengamot, not to mention the people who stand to gain should House Potter go extinct. Then you have your ‘reformed’ death eaters, and-” 

Draco holds up a hand to stop his monologue. This is where they excel. Having been partners since they began the rigorous training to become Hit-Wizards, Draco knows where Harry is going before he gets there.

“From your story, it sounds like they knew about James’ magic sensitivity. They didn’t stun him while they were taking him, and they threatened to use magic in order to get away.” Harry nods in understanding, continuing Draco’s train of thought. 

“They were sent by someone who knows James, or at least suspects there is truth to the rumors about his...problem.” Harry adjusts his glasses absentmindedly. Draco winces. ‘Problematic’ is one way to describe the bothersome magical hole in the wall of his nephew’s heart. Because of its proximity to the volatile central magical reserve located in his chest, the tiniest bit of magic done around or on him could overwhelm the magical pathways throughout his body, killing him instantly. 

The amount of people who know the specifics of James’ condition is limited. Unfortunately for them, information that sensitive is a hot commodity in the seedier parts of the wizarding world.

Draco stands from the plush office chair. “I’m going to floo Tori. We’ll likely be up all night, and Daphne’s in no mind to take care of herself.” As he steps back into the hallway and starts towards the still crowded living room, he catches sight of a photograph downed in today’s madhouse.

From behind the fractured glass ordinarly wave a flour-dusted Daphne and a chortling Harry. The crack in the glass runs between them, cleaving right through what used to be the image of a tiny blonde haired boy.

Today is not an ordinary day.


	3. Pillars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing Zacharias Smith loves more than production.

On average, the Wizengamot of magical Britain passes four new pieces of legislature a quarter.

These motions are often inconsequential, concerning that thrice damned problem of cauldron thickness or some other infinitesimal matter.

Every once in a while, however, an important piece of legislation is passed. Despite the rarity of such an occurrence, or perhaps because of it, the passing of these statutes is quite the production. The cavernous room of the Wizengamot is filled to bursting with members of the press and public, while the members of the legislative body strut and preen with self-importance.

There is nothing Zacharias Smith loves more than production.

Today he whirls about the wizengamot, rich violet robes fluttering haughtily. Red mouth fixed in a pompous smirk, he schmoozes his way through the upper echelons of wizarding society.

Today is _finally_ his day.

He sits patiently through the session, nodding and humming and pretending to listen intently when necessary. He exchanges pointed barbs with his colleagues, and finds a convenient excuse to drop famous names whenever possible- _“Who, the minister? Oh, a cousin of mine. Why, I visited him just the other day!”_ to When the Chief Warlock opens the floor to new suits, Zacharias stands, brushes nonexistent dust from his immaculate robes, and takes to the circular floor below the stands.

“Good people of the Wizengamot,” Zacharias begins, arms flung wide as if to embrace the Lords and Ladies of the chamber. “It is a privilege to be here before you. In fact, it is a privilege to be here at all! Many of our brethren perished in the war, taken from us by those desperate to divide us. Those that were aided and abetted by-” Here he spins dramatically, accusatory finger pointed towards the tapestries above the great doors that bear the images of all the Ministers of Magic. “-Our very own ministry!” A horrified gasp arises from the room, as though they expect the ministers to crawl from their portraits and conspire against them then and there. Zacharias continues, murky blue eyes glinting mischievously. 

“Thankfully, we are today guided by a ministry of fine witches and wizards, such as those in this great body.” The wide grin pasted on his face falls, replaced with a worried frown that does not seem quite sincere. “But friends, if we are to truly move on and recover from the horrors of the last wizarding war, we must ensure that all avenues for corruption are closed. We must work to create a world where right is right, and stays right regardless of who is in power. It is up to us, to leave our society a more grounded one for those that will come after us. In remembrance of that obligation, I ask that you take a stand. Stand strong against corruption. Stand strong against forces that seek to divide us. Stand strong for our people, and stand against those in power who seek to use the honor we have bestowed upon them for their own selfish gains!” Panting, Zacharias pivots slowly to take in the fired up Wizengamot. Whether or not they have taken the time to actually read the rather long-winded law is inconsequential. What matters is their passion, the fact that they are as eager as he to see this law passed and (in their minds) fight heroically against evil.

Zacharias grins. “And another thing,” He continues. “To anyone who would stand opposite us, who would seek to see darkness thrive in place of light-” He makes pointed eye contact with the crowd at random. Those he locks eyes with shiver nervously. “We will remember you. We will keep in mind those who stand against us.”

The chamber is silent.

Nodding resolutely, Zacharias makes his way back to his family chair. As he walks, the chamber rises to its feet, a slow clap morphing into thunderous applause. Several people wipe away tears in remembrance of fallen ones, and there is no one, no one, who would dare vote against today’s motion.

There is nothing Zacharias Smith loves more than production.

 

Astoria Malfoy is many things.

A bad sister is not one of them.

She has strived to be a good sister all her life. She has not always been perfect, and Daphne doesn’t always make it easy, but she has been good, and she takes pride in that fact.

Astoria Malfoy is _not_ a bad sister.

So why does she feel like such a horrible one now?

For the past four days, Astoria has endeavoured to be the support that holds Daphne up. She has listened and reassured, cooked and cleaned, and slept hardly a wink in her efforts to support her sister. She has sat patiently beside the whirlwind that is Daphne, as her sister cycles from anger to despair to despondency and back. She turned all the pictures of her little nephew around at the request of his mother, despite the fact it feels a little too much like mourning for her liking. She hardly sees her own child from one day to the next for fear that it will upset her sister, regardless her own feelings of terror for him.

Astoria Malfoy is a _great_ sister.

It’s quite unfair she feels utterly useless.

No matter what she does, she cannot bring back the sparkle in her sisters eye. She cannot make her brother-in-law smile, or her own husband laugh. Everyone around her is a collage of grey and the color clings to her, more and more each day, weighing her down like an anvil.

She wants to scream color back into their lives.

Today the four of them trudge to the Minister’s office, limbs lumbering as if wading through molasses. The people of the ministry part before them, hushed questions left unanswered by the sorrowful brigade.

When they reach the sparse waiting room, Harry and Daphne sit together, but apart. Harry sits stoically, green eyes unblinking. Daphne is beside him, body huddled in on itself and angled unconsciously away from her husbands’. That, more than anything, pains Astoria.

Astoria Malfoy is a _great_ sister.

It’s just that right now she has trouble believing it.

The portly secretary waves them in from behind a cluttered desk. The foursome stand and shuffle forward, stepping behind a ruby red door and into an upscale office.

An oaken desk stands regally in front of the magic windows that frame all of the ministry offices. They stand in stark contrast to the mood of the room, baby blue skies forming a brilliant backdrop to puffy white clouds. Pacing the violet carpet is one Kingsley Shacklebolt, shiny bald head reflecting the light from the windows. He waves vaguely towards the chairs in front of his desk, and slows to a stop in front of them.

Harry is the first to speak from where he sits, ramrod straight in his wood backed chair.

“What’s the hold up Kings?” Harry holds on to Daphne’s hand like a lifeline. “It’s been four days, _four days_ where our son has been completely off the grid. Why aren’t the Hit-Wizards out there, doing their job?” Harry stands at the end of his tirade, jolted out of his seat by the force of his anger. Next to him, Daphne flinches, almost imperceptibly. Instantly, Harry is softer, flaming green eyes cooling quickly as he squeezes her too pale hand in apology. Kingsley sighs exhaustedly.

“If it were up to me Hal, I would have had them out there and looking for your boy days ago, I swear it.” Padding behind the desk, he rummages around before pulling out a wrinkled copy of ‘The Daily Prophet’. Passing it to the still standing Harry, he turns his attention to the three blondes still seated.  
“The day after James’ kidnapping, the Wizengamot voted on several new laws.” Kingsley begins as Harry appears to cycle through all seven stages of grief in the time it takes him to read the article. “The largest one enacted a variety of new measures designed to ‘inhibit corruption’. The most important measure restricts the amount of government tools high-ranking individuals can harness without a approval of both the Wizengamot and the ministry board.” At this news, both Daphne and Draco deflate. Confused by the tears welling up in her sister’s eyes, Astoria turns her attention to the Minister.

“What does that mean?” For all her top of the class bravado she is woefully ignorant concerning the politics of her world, having luxuriated in her position as a second daughter of a pureblood house, free from the unyielding standards and lessons that dominate the life of an heir. Before Kingsley can respond, Harry answers, still clutching the newspaper in a vice grip.

“It means the Hit-Wizards can’t be used to retrieve James. They’re only mustered for especially high risk missions, something magic sensitivity cases are not, under ministry law.” Harry seems to sink under the revelation, broad shoulders hunched as he settles back into the chair. Beside him Daphne screws her eyes shut, focusing what little energy has been left to her on containing her tears. Desperate to bring her elder sibling even a fraction of peace, Astoria latches on to what little piece of hope she can find.

“But we can get the Hit-Wizards, can’t we? All we have to do is get the Wizengamot and the Board, whatever that is, to agree that the aurors aren’t enough for this case! Surely they’ll listen to you Harry!” Tori’s frantic hopes are dashed by a morose Draco. Laying a pale hand on her arm, he elaborates quietly. 

“No, Tori.” His white blonde hair is disrupted by a shake of his head. “The board is made up of the Minister, the most senior department head, and the most junior one. Just our luck, the minister recently appointed Cecilia Robards as head of Transportation.” Seeing the frown on Astoria’s face, he continues. “Cecilia is the wife of Gawain Robards, the head auror- though he’s at Mungo’s now, potions accident. The aurors and Hit-Wizards have been bitter rivals for as long as anyone can remember. They see us as upstarts and we see them as untrained and irrelevant, which they are.” His weak attempt at a joke falls flat. “We’ll never get Cecilia to agree to anything concerning the Hit-Wizards, especially if the request comes from one. It’s no use. We either accept the help of the aurors, or we do nothing.”

The fire in Harry’s eyes roars back to life at Draco’s words. “No,” He growls, rising to his feet. “Those wand happy fools will only be too happy to screw up this operation to spite a Hit-Wizard in the name of rivalry. All it would take is an ‘accidental’ spell to injure my son. No, those aurors will be put on this case over my dead body.” With only a kiss to Daphne’s cold cheek, he stalks out. The slamming of doors thunders behind him. Draco hurries after him with a nod to his wife and the minister. Astoria can only shake her head in wonderment. Guiding a still silent Daphne out of the Ministers office, it is all she can do to shield her from curious gazes as they make their way to the atrium. Flooing into the foyer of Potter Manor, she is shocked from her stupor by the quiet voice of her sister.

“Will I ever see him again Tori?” Daphne does not look at her as she speaks, grass green eyes focused on a picture on the far wall. Astoria turns, and catches sight of a photograph of a smiling James that somehow escaped the culling of its brothers. Deftly stepping in between Daphne and the picture she bustles her sister into the kitchen. She whirls around the kitchen, babbling incessantly about any mundane topic that comes to mind.

She does not, cannot answer her sisters question.

Astoria Malfoy is many things.

All-knowing is not one of them.

 

Zacharias Smith likes to think of himself as a pillar of wizarding society.

As part of his self-prescribed duties, he spends his time after leaving his office at the ministry in Diagon Alley, taking care to be seen conversing with the common people. He takes his meals in the ‘Leaky Cauldron’, loudly recounting his day in session for all to hear. He is careful to speak with even the particularly ornery patrons of the pub, taking their pointed silences as invitation to share his opinion on anything from celebrity gossip to the new store opening at the other end of the alley. After thoroughly harassing the people of the ‘Leaky’, he makes a show of leaving the alley, whistling a jaunty tune as he apparates away.

Very few know that Zacharias does not return home after apparating. Instead, he materializes in Knockturn Alley, stepping off of the apparition point and hurrying off. Blue eyes scan empty storefronts and trash littered roads for unseen watchers.

It does not do for pillars of wizarding society to be caught on these streets.

In stark contrast to the rebuilt streets of Diagon Alley, Knockturn is populated by crumbling walls and broken glass. The stench of alcohol and fire hangs heavy in the night air. Zacharias pays no mind to the dilapidated area, huddling his thin robe closer to his lanky body and making his way through the curving cobblestone road.

Quickly, he makes his way to one of the few open establishments left in this part of town, a grim looking bar situated deep within the alley. Normally, Zacharias would hurry to his usual seat in the back of the bar, cautious of being seen by too many curious eyes. Wary of being late to such an important meeting, he stops briefly in a dark alleyway to glamour his cheery robes and mousy hair to a muted grey.

He is halfway through disguising his features with a well placed charm when a gloved hand emerges from the alleyway, yanking him in and pinning him to the cold cement wall before he can blink. Cold emerald eyes stare back at watery blue as the black cloaked figure presses his arm into Zacharias’ windpipe. Helpless to stop the stars that fill his eyes, wand having clattered away somewhere in the scuffle, he tries in vain to claw at his attacker. It is only when his spindly fingers halt their futile defense against the assailant that he is let go and drops to the ground.

He watches from his position on the hard stone as the figure points a wand his way. Eyes screwed shut in preparation, he holds himself and prepares to die, alone and overpowered on the cold floor.

One breath.

Two.

Zacharias risks opening an eye towards his assailant. Whatever charm that had hid all but his eyes from view has been canceled, leaving the wicked smile of Harry Potter bare to his eyes. 

_Wonderful._

Now resigned to his fate, Zacharias does not close his eyes. If he is going to die here, he supposes, he will at least look his death in the eye. 

Harry tilts his head, eyeing Zacharias’ change of heart with a coldly amused grin.

“Do you have a death wish Smith?” Harry speaks quietly but confidently, wand hand never wavering from Zacharias’ body. Confused at his apparent lack of deadness, He shakes his head slowly. Harry nods, as if taking in the information. He speaks again.

“If you want to make it back home tonight, listen very carefully. I do not enjoy repeating myself. Do you understand?” Nodding again, Zacharias begins to hope that maybe today is not his last.

“Your contact, the one you were going to meet,” Harry is interrupted by Zacharias’ shocked gasp. Rolling his eyes, Harry beckons the other man to hush with his free hand. “Yes, I know about your little gambling problem. But using your political influence, what little there is, to pay it off? Very naughty Smith!” Harry tsks. From his place on the ground, Zacharias harrumphs. Harry continues on, oblivious. “They are the one who told you to pass your little law, correct?” The tip of his wand glows menacingly at Zacharias’ hesitation. Eyes widened in terror, Zacharias nods frantically.

“I thought so.” Harry hums. Squatting down, he lowers his wand tip to Zacharias’ ear. Seeing the confused face of the other man, Harry elaborates.

“It’s fascinating what you can do by just overpowering a simple spell,” The cold grin is back. It twists Harry’s features, darkening them into something undoubtedly deadly. “You’re familiar with ‘Scourgify’, of course?” Zacharias nods, terrified comprehension dawning on his face. “Good boy!” Harry patronizes, eyes glimmering. “I’m sure you can imagine what would happen to your insides should I send and industrial powered cleaning charm their way, can’t you?” Harry chuckles at the accusatory glare Smith sends his way. “Oh, don’t do that, you brought this on yourself old boy! Now, I’ll ask you one more time for good measure. Do you have a death wish?”  
Zacharias answers in the negative. Harry smiles cheerily. 

“Wonderful! Now, you’re going to tell me everything you know about who took my son.” At the shake of Zacharias’ head, Harry tuts. “No no, friend, that won’t do. You wouldn’t have passed that law if you hadn’t had something to do with that whole mess, you must know _something_. Don’t think ignorance will get you off the hook, I’m not leaving without some information.”

For the first time since this ordeal started, Zacharias finds it within himself to speak.

“I was only told that you wouldn’t be happy if the law was passed, I figured because it was a cap on your power, I swear I only did it to spite you-” At the shake of Harry’s head and the raising of his wand, Zacharias throws out the only card he has left.

“I have a name!” He cries, body huddled in on itself. Harry pauses, one eyebrow raised. Relieved at this stay of execution, Zacharias continues. “They call her Madame Midnight. She knows everything that goes on in these parts, all of the plots or feuds. If anyone knows who has your son, it’s her.”

At this revelation Harry nods. He is no stranger to Madame Midnight, having been firmly entrenched in the goings on of the dark side of the wizarding world when he was a Hit-Wizard. The Queen-Mother of the criminal underbelly, so to speak, Madame Midnight keeps a firm eye on those who pass through her realm. Any Hit-Wizard worth his salt knows that angering her is a one-way ticket to the morgue.

If anyone knows who is responsible for the kidnapping, it’s her.

Turning back to the still cowering Zacharias, Harry stands. Beckoning the other man up from the floor, he leans forward and speaks.

“I’ve decided to be merciful today, Smith.” Smirking at the palpable relief coming from the other man, Harry continues. “But you’ve still to learn that their are consequences for you actions.” Before the other man can move away from the impending danger, Harry raises his wand and fires off a shiny purple spell. Zacharias shrieks, looking up in shock when the spell simply dissipates on contact. Already strolling away, Harry turns back to answer the unasked question.

“Remarkable piece of magic, the Cassandra spell. I can only imagine how it must feel to have everything you say, no matter how obvious, regarded as false by those around you. Ta ta now Smith!” Harry chuckles to himself, drowning out the furious scream of Zacharias Smith with a jaunty whistle as he waltzes down the dingy streets.

When Zacharias calms enough to grab his wand and set off after him, he is already gone into the still night. Zacharias stomps his foot pathetically. Knowing his contact would have already left the bar, he begins the trek to the apparition point. As he walks through the quiet, thoughts a whirl, he tries to forget the events of the night. Instead, he looks forward to the loving embrace of his wife and a warm bed.

That is until, he is put out of his bedroom for ‘incessant lying’. Trekking towards the lumpy couch, he winces at the thought of working with his colleagues until the spell wears off.

Some pillar of wizarding society he’ll be.


	4. That Which Went In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That which emerges is not the same as that which went in.

It is no easy endeavour to become a Master Hit-Wizard.

The training to do so is fiercer than the flames of hell. The strongest of witches and wizards are broken down to blood and bone and back again.

That which emerges is not the same as that which went in.

The habits of a finely honed weapon never truly fade away, are only regulated to the subconscious upon retirement. Still they wait, an ocean of destruction waiting to be unleashed upon the unwary.

The clamor inside his head beats a familiar din. It is unending, a steady thump accompanying his every step. In its place has been quiet for so long now, but today the feeling is welcome.

It is the heartbeat of a warrior.

And he hungers for vengeance.

 

Today he stalks the streets of the lower alley, the little known cavern beneath Diagon proper deemed the ‘Underbelly’ by those in the know. Its homes and shops seem to leer from their foundations, grim facades bearing a chilling resemblance to a Hogsmeade beset by war. The inhabitants of this dismal place eye his tall form as he strides the sodden ground, unkempt brows raised in surprise and suspicion.

In the underbelly, appearance is key. To dress conspicuously, robes too high quality or shoes to clean, especially in these parts, is asking for trouble. Here, on the outer parts of the cavern, petty crime runs rampant and those deemed ‘high-brow’ are prime targets. 

To dress conspicuously is bad, but to dress dangerously is worse.

Even Hit-Wizards, as competent as they are, disguise themselves before entering the Underbelly. A few petty criminals with wands are an annoyance best avoided when on a mission.

But today, Harry does not dress conspicuously, or even dangerously. Instead, he dresses to die. He goes without a glamour, distinctive green eyes and lighting bolt scar announcing to all his identity.

Not everyone in the underbelly hates Harry Potter. But enough of them have been affected one way or another by his tenure as a Hit-Wizard that the prospect of revenge, no matter how foolhardy, is enticing. A group approaches him from the far end of the street, two burly backed men led by a spindly woman. Wands drawn, they stalk towards him casually; ugly sneers warping otherwise plain faces. They sweep towards each other, an unstoppable force on a collision course with an immovable object.

Only the force is not unstoppable.

And the object is more than immovable.

Perhaps if the trio had sensed the danger that hung even heavier than usual about the Underbelly, sensed their impending doom in the form of the infamous man striding towards them, they could have earned a fate more merciful. Instead they march unknowingly towards slaughter.

The time for Mercy is long past.

Harry does not slow as he approaches the group, only flicks out his holly wand towards one of the crumbling houses that line the walk. A shingle off of the decrepit building loosens itself from the roof, flying through the musty air and piercing the bulky man on the left. He staggers, sinking to his knees on the lonely path. Before his comrades can stop to offer him aid, they are rendered equally helpless, one cut down by the lid of a rusty dust bin, the other dispatched by a loose brick. They lay together, a crumpled pile of bodies and blood. The people who live along the walk make no attempt to approach them, apparently deciding that this shall not be the hill to they die on. The three are offered no avail, nor will they be.

No help comes to the Underbelly.

Harry continues on, loafer clad feet plodding the sodden ground. He encounters no more trouble on his journey, unsurprisingly. News spreads fast in the Underbelly, especially to those in power. 

Which means his presence will not be a surprise, thankfully.

Madame Midnight does not appreciate surprises.

As he strolls deeper into the Underbelly, the abodes grow nicer. The path under his feet becomes more intact, missing stones giving way to perfectly paved sidewalks. The houses are painted bright colors, with flourishing gardens bearing all sorts of magical plants. The suspicious looks are constant, however. They grow even more wary, if possible.

There is no petty crime here. Instead, those who live here engage in ‘white-robe crime’, defrauding the ministry or running illegal smuggling rings. A fair few of these people know him by stride alone, and the ferocious glares that peek out from silk curtains belie the upscale nature of this neighborhood.

About halfway into his walk two wizards melt out of the shadows and set out after him. They take care not to approach him, and for all intents and purposes appear to be coincidentally going the same way as he.

Harry knows better.

There are no coincidences in the Underbelly.

He does not acknowledge their presence, only squares his shoulders in preparation as they enter the next sector of the city. There are no houses here, only the feel of very ancient and malevolent magic. The invisible tendrils curl around his body, seeping into his skin like poisonous fog. They welcome him back, sneer greetings into his ear with sarrchine toxicity.

There are many things he misses about his job, but this part of the Underbelly, rife with the most vile of wizarding criminals, is not one of them. He frequented these parts as a Master Hit-Wizard, consorting with masterminds and murders alike to put away those that caused more trouble than the Ministry was comfortable with. For so long this place was his home, a place where he could completely give into the dangerous creature the war fashioned him into.

He is not the same man he was than.

An end to the walk is finally in sight. The only house visible on the street looms large, an opulent manor that seems to leech despair into the air around it. It is well maintained, expansive grounds neatly trimmed, pristine exterior glistening. Still, something about the house is off, a sense of foreboding that intensifies with every step towards the oak door. Harry does not falter, strides past the open door and into an elegant wood-paneled foyer. Several people crowd the hall, all clad in midnight blue robes emblazoned with a double ‘M’. They do not look at him outright, seem to ignore his presence, but Harry was not titled a master at his craft for nothing. These people are highly trained killing machines, and every iota of them is tensed in preparation to end his life should he so much as sneeze.

It’s almost funny, how normal this all used to be for him.

The sentries who accompanied him on his journey to this place sweep past him, nondescript clothing melting into the blue robes of their counterparts as they venture further into the house. Harry follows them nonchalantly, emerald eyes memorizing the layout of the house as he leaves the entry hall. 

He’ll be of little use to anyone trapped in the Underbelly for the rest of his life.

The men lead him to a central courtyard, lush foliage partly concealing a white bench underneath a gazebo of fire tipped roses. The tiny flames sprouting from the petals illuminate the face of a gnarled woman, oak cane suspended in the air beside where she lounges. Her hair is streaked with pure white strands, as if splattered with paint. Her eyes are completely black, somehow zeroing in on Harry despite their inability to see. Behind her are a group of seven sapphire robed witches, stone gazes trained past Harry. The sentries disappear, and Harry is left alone with the most dangerous woman in all of the wizarding world.

Stepping forward, Harry draws a small glass vial from the pocket of his muggle pants. The maroon liquid inside moves sluggishly, darkening to black as Harry extends his hand to the old woman in front of him. Her eyes do not follow him, and the bottle hangs between them until a liver spotted hand reaches to grab it. The woman considers it, swinging the timorous container back and forth before pocketing it. Behind her, one of the witches fidgets minutely, but Harry, already on edge from the Underbelly takes careful note of it.

The clamor hightens.

The woman stretches out a wizened hand again, proffering its veiny back to Harry. Carefully, he lifts it to his mouth, preparing to complete the ritual that will hopefully bring him one step closer to finding his son. At any other time, he might laugh at the irony of the most feared wizarding mastermind indulging in such a muggle ceremony.

At any other time the clamor in his head would not be deafening.

Perhaps if Harry were a little more desperate, remembered a little less about the times the racket inside his head has kept him from an untimely and gruesome death, screamed out a warning alarm at unseen danger; he would have ignored the ear-splitting noise in favor of kissing the Madames hand. Perhaps if Harry had been trained a little less, danced with death fewer times; he would have thrown caution to the wind and done whatever it took to get his son back. 

Maybe if he were a little less Slytherin, he wouldn’t have been able to tell that the wrinkled old woman sitting in front of him was in fact, not Madame Midnight.

As it is, a Harry hardened by war and work knows better. Knows that Madame Midnight does not hesitate, knows that despite unseeing eyes the woman follows all movement, no matter how minute. Harry is well aware that the guard women who stand behind the Madame at all times do not fidget, because nervous fingers mean a battle hardened soldier itching for her wand, mean beams of death and destruction radiating from every ounce of her being. They do not fidget, unless given a reason to.

Harry knows that he has given them no such reason.

Studying the small hand within his own closely, he takes careful note of the liver spots that dot the spindly appendage. They are a deep brown, round as pennies upon the woman. Under the light of the roses them seem almost sinister, as if goading him into making a fatal mistake.

To treat anyone in the Underbelly with the deference accorded to only Madame Midnight is regarded as treason.

Down here, their is only one punishment for a traitor.

Death.

Harry releases the falsey aged hand he holds softly. The old woman starts, turning to the left of Harry, unknowingly confirming his suspicions. He laughs loudly, reaching out to grab the hand of the sentry behind the woman on the bench, kissing it happily. He steps back to the center of the courtyard, relaxed despite the seven wands pointed directly at him.

The clamor has quieted.  
Slowly, the woman on the bench rises, snatching her cane from the air with a withered arm. She hobbles towards him, black eyes set above a fierce snarl. She halts in front of him, white streaked hair seeming to crackle with fire in the light of the garden. One wilted hand rises to grip his cheek, hard.

“Do you realize what you have done, Harry Potter?” Her voice is quiet, it’s ferocious rasp radiating about the room. Still Harry smiles, waggling black eyebrows at her playfully. She hisses at him, sharp nails drawing blood as she tightens her hold on his face.

“Perhaps, in the years you have been away, you have forgotten the rules of the Underbelly. Even so, surely you remember the punishment for traitors?” Her snarl morphs into a wicked smile, black eyes trained on his nose. “But, in the spirit of forgiveness, we shall grant you one last chance to prove yourself. Do not fail us, Harry Potter.” The same unnaturally spotted hand appears in front of him, stretched out invitingly. 

The clamor is back, screeching now.

A compelling charm. How wonderful.

Harry squares his shoulders, jade eyes narrowed in concentration. Madame Midnight is no Voldemort, however, and it is not long before the urge to kiss the hand passes. Instead, Harry, thoroughly enjoying himself, extends his own hand, shaking the other one firmly.

The woman in front of him rears back, preparing to strike. Before she can, the fidgety sentry speaks up.

“That is enough, Hilda. He has not been deceived.” The woman disappears with a ‘crack’, appearing again in front of them. She unsheathes a dark wand and taps Hilda on the head, than herself. Hilda reverts to the blue robes of a sentry, long nose twitching in disgust as she considers Harry with now misty grey eyes. The real Madame Midnight takes on her original appearance, black eyes now locked directly into Harry’s green. 

She smiles.

“Harry Potter. Always interfering with my best laid plans, weren’t you?” She takes the vial from Hilda’s now outstretched hand and considers it carefully. “Basilisk blood, eh?” She chuckles softly. “Then again, I’m not surprised. You always were one to spoil my fun.” How she manages to discern what the vial is without looking, Harry does not know.

He isn’t sure if he wants to.

“But alas,” She waves away her sentries with a flick of her aged hand. Only Hilda hesitates, shooting Harry one last glare before filing out of the courtyard. The Madame turns, beckoning Harry to sit next to her on the bench. “,You are not here to reminisce on old times. You want your son.” She gesticulates vaguely. Harry notes the the liver spots on her hands, natural now, irregular and varying in size. She notices his gaze and smiles wryly. “Even I have never quite been able to get the gemini charm to work on such a minute detail of organic matter. Difficult work, that is.” She considers the vial in her palm, humming to herself before turning back to Harry.

“You believe James was taken for revenge. Perhaps someone from the Underbelly bitter from your exploits down here. And who wouldn’t be? You put some of our most noteworthy people away, locked up those we thought would cause the Ministry terror for years to come.” At his raised brow, she shakes her head. “Of course, I understand. You did your job, even to the detriment of some in the Underbelly,”

Before she can continue, Harry interrupts incredulously. “You object to me having put away murderers? People who did awful, awful things to innocent peo-” The Madame raises one hand. “Do not interrupt me Harry Potter.” Her black eyes consider him carefully. “No matter how powerful you are, you will die here if I should decree so.” Harry nods, concealing a small shudder. Madame Midnight is not a woman to be trifled with. Seeing his acquiescence, she continues. 

“I understand the Yin and Yang of our world, Harry Potter. You must keep the worst of the dark from tainting the light, and without the dark, there is nothing to make the light what it is. We are all necessary, in the grand scheme of things. Even so, the wizards and witches you used to capture were not just criminals, or murderers, or smugglers. They were people.” She plucks one of the roses off of the gazebo, cradling the fire flower in the palm of her hand. “Each one of those people supported the Underbelly, employed its poorer residents or sponsored the opening of new establishments. And every time you sent one of them to their doom-” She smothers each one of the flames in turn, leaving the extinguished flower in her palm. “-those people are left unmoored, bereft of yet another support system.” She crushes the flower suddenly, opening her hand to allow its decayed form to drift to the ground.

“We are equal in this world, Harry Potter. Some of us less so than others.” She stands, oaken cane further smushing the flower on the ground. “Your son was not taken for the reason you think. All in the Underbelly know of your prowess. None of my people would be idiotic enough to take your child. That would only result in your wrath. No,” She turns back to him. “Your son was stolen by someone close to you. Someone who does not want revenge, someone who knew about your distaste in aurors and about James’ magic sensitivity.” She snorts at Harry’s startled glance despite not being able to see him. “Of course I am aware of your son’s little problem, Harry Potter. Even accidents in St. Mungos are not outside my realm of knowledge.”

She beckons Harry towards her, pressing a blue token into his hand when he reaches her. It is small and round, emblazoned with a silver double ‘M’ much like the robes her servants wear. “A token,” she whispers conspiratorially even though they are alone. “No one will approach you on your journey back. Wouldn’t want you to perish before you could repay the favor you owe me now, would we?” Her laugh is cold and mocking, leeching the warmth provided by the flowers from the room. She hobbles out of the courtyard, cane thumping the ground steadily. Before she disappears from sight, she pauses; drawing a curious gaze from Harry.

“We here in the Underbelly are no fools. If we were to truly exact revenge on you, we wouldn’t touch your family.” She continues her slow stroll back to the main house, leaving Harry to wonder as her last words revervate around the courtyard.

“We would kill you first.”

 

The second Thursday of every month is an unremarkable one for most of the patrons of the Leaky Cauldron. They shuffle in after work, grabbing a pint at the bar and striking up mundane conversation with the other customers before heading home.

Perhaps if any of the regulars on Thursdays were proficient at recognizing ‘notice me not’ charms, this particular Thursday wouldn’t be so unremarkable.

As it is, none of them take notice of the gaggle of people who populate the large table at the back of the dusky room.

The table, already beset by several extending charms, struggles to contain the multitude of people sat around it. At one end is Kingsley Shacklebolt, bald head somehow glistening in the dim light of the pub. At the other is Harry Potter, scars upon his cheek from the day’s exploits still red and raised, dark bags under his eyes a stark contrast to the bright grin on his face. The table is weighed down with copious amounts of fried food and ale, and the din of conversation puts up a fierce fight against the powerful silencing charm enclosing the place. Harry rolls his eyes at Kingsley, gesturing towards the others with his pint. Kingsley chuckles in return, standing up and clearing his throat to gain the attention of the other occupants of the table. Unsurprisingly, it does not work. Shaking his head at Harry’s guffaw, Kingsley slams his hands down on the table.

In unison, ten heads swivel to look at the Minister. 

“Now that everyone’s been more than satiated,” Kingsley gives a pointed glance to one of the redheads at the table. Ron flames a firetruck red, dropping the fry headed towards his maw with a gulp. Harry hurriedly coughs to cover his laugh as Ron flashes him a betrayed glare. Kingsley continues, doing his best to ignore the men in front of him. 

“We’re here for a reason.” The light atmosphere of the room is gone in an instant, replaced by worried determination. “One of our own has been wronged, and everyone in this room is going to play a part to fix that. Several of you-” Kingsley nods towards seven of the people. “-are Hit-Wizards. Some of you are dear friends with a penchant for causing mayhem.” Kings makes eye contact with the other three. “Either way, this operation is completely off the record. We don’t need some slimy opportunist at the ministry catching wind of this and booking us all in violation of some of the Ministry’s newer laws. Harry-” Kingsley sits down, gesturing towards the other man at the end of the table. “-has some new information. Hal?”

Harry stands, green eyes taking in everyone around the table. That their monthly get togethers have been turned into a war council of sorts seems an inevitable outcome; the unavoidable result of gathering eight professional warriors and four battle hardened heroes together during peace times. Many of the faces he recognizes from Hogwarts, older now- high end of twenty year old faces beset by ghosts of war.

He knows he would see the same on his own face if he looked into a mirror.

“Friends,” Harry begins, usually jovial attitude replaced by a somber facade. “As some of you may know,” He sends Draco, seated beside him, a sly glance. “I went down to visit our friends in the Underbelly today.” The table erupts in laughter. “I’m sure they we’re happy to see you, Hal!” Neville hollers from his place near Ron. Harry winks in return. The men, although less familiar with the Underbelly, know enough to understand the likelihood of Harry being warmly received by the criminal hive are slim to none.

“Alright, alright.” Harry beckons them to hush with his hands. “I ventured up to the Madame’s place, and she relinquished some...interesting information.” Barely constrained hopeful gazes shine back at Harry. “Well, what’d she say Hal? Did she know where James was?” Susan Bones is the first to articulate the feelings of the room, small hands tapping the table with excitement. She does not come often to these meetings, her presence tonight being at the request of Kingsley.

Harry scratches his head absently. “No, Sue; nothing that wonderful. But,” He continues, looking around the table. “She did say that no one in the Underbelly had him. Didn’t exactly give me a suspect, but narrowed down the parameters, that’s for sure.” The council nods in understanding. None question Madame Midnight’s words, not even those not strictly in-the-know. Madame Midnight, for all her ‘illicit’ dealings, is always truthful in what she chooses to reveal.

But then again, are lies of omission not lies all the same?

Draco pipes up next to Harry. “That’s good then.” He intones, pawing his scraggly beard in thought. “The Underbelly and all its offshoots would take us months to evaluate. But that does change out predicted motive…” He trails off in thought.

Anthony Goldstein chimes in. “Well, it would have to be someone with political connections. That new bill was no matter of inconvenient timing. Perhaps someone on the wizengamot? It explains why they would get Smith to do their dirty work, take suspicion off of them.” There are a few nods from around the table at the young Hit-Wizards suggestion, but Harry is not convinced.

“What’s the motive though?” He asks the room at large. “I don’t think I’ve done anything to tick off anyone on the Wizengamot all that much.” Kingsley hums in agreement, bags under his eyes illuminated by the low light. “Have we thought about any rivals? The Auror department, perhaps? Rumor says you’re thinking of making a comeback to the Hit-Wizard squad. We all know Robards would do anything to prevent that, St Mungos bound or not. He’d have the resources to pull off a heist on Potter Manor, with his wife's recent promotion and all. Say-” Kingsley’s puzzled frown turns to a sly grin. “Are you coming back Harry?”

The table laughs, drawn out of their somber discussions with the inside joke. Harry glares at the older man playfully. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Shacklebolt.” Harry teases. “We all know you kicked up a right fuss after I left.”

With that, the table returns to its deliberations, pondering over motive and means until the early morning. Slowly, the people file out, Ron and George gone back to their homes, followed by Neville and Anthony, than several of the Hit-Wizards. Harry leaves Susan and Draco to chat, approaching the bald minister still sat at the end of the table.

“The Mrs. keeping you up at night, eh?” Harry jokes, taking a seat beside the older man. Kingsley waggles his finger at Harry. “Your mind is so firmly up a gutter, I don’t know how you see.” He mutters, eyes closed. He looks even worse up close, exhaustion evident in the set of his brow. Noticing Harry’s worried gaze even from behind closed eyes, he speaks softly. “Don’t worry about me. A little dreamless sleep and I’ll be right as rain.” He stands carefully, weight unevenly divided between his legs. “I’d better head home.” He claps one hand on Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll find your boy, Potter. Don’t you worry.” With that, the man limps out of the room. Harry stands as well, tugging on his black hair in frustration until a warm hand reaches up to stop his own.

“Hey there, stranger.” Susan Bones smiles sadly, still clutching his callused hand within her own. “Lot’s happened since we last saw each other, huh?” Her brown eyes twinkle despite the dim lighting. Usually tempestuous rust colored hair is constrained by a careful plait.

He can’t help but compare it to the ones he used to practice on her.

That was a long, long time ago.

“S-Sue!” He stutters pathetically. “I-It’s been what, a decade since we last saw each other, huh?” In a desperate effort to regain his cool, he ignores her quiet chuckle and leans against the table.

His posture is unnatural and uncomfortable, and only serves to make Susan laugh harder.

Swell.

Draco, wonderful brother-in-law that he is, comes to the rescue. “Hal and I had better get home, Sue. It was nice seeing you!” The blonde man waves with one hand as he bustles Harry out of the room with the other. It is only when they are outside the Cauldron that he stops.

And promptly slaps Harry upside the head.

“What is it with you and redheads, Potter?” Draco asks incredulously. “It’s like you lose half your brain cells when you’re around them- and you don’t have many to spare!” Harry glares at the other man. “Look who’s talking Malfoy.” He mutters childishly. “I married a blonde, much like you did, might I add.” 

Draco scoffs. “At least I don’t forget my wife whenever a certain someone is around…” The Hit-Wizard trails off knowingly. Harry halts in his path, left spluttering. “K-knock if off, Malfoy. Sue and I have history, that’s all.” 

“Whatever you say Potter!” Draco calls from his place further down the sidewalk. Muggle London has ground to a halt this time of day, bright lights illuminating empty sidewalks and closed storefronts. Harry hurries to catch up to the still strolling Draco, drawing close to the other man in silence.

“There was something you weren’t telling us tonight.” Draco says after a little while. Harry does not startle, unsurprised that the other man is able to read him so well. 

“Midnight said that James was taken by someone close to me. Someone who didn’t want revenge, who was close enough to know about his sensitivity. I figured that anyone in there could have done it, they all fit the parameters. Didn’t seem wise to let any of them know about it.” Draco nods in understanding, fiddling with the collar of his coat.

“What about me? Surely I am the most likely suspect out of everyone there.” Harry turns to his brother-in-law, one eyebrow raised. “Did you do it?” He asks, seemingly unconcerned about Draco’s answer. Draco answers without hesitation. “Of course not.” 

Harry nods, continuing his walk down the avenue. The blonde follows, confusion evident on his face.

“So what did you find out?” Harry only chuckles at the other man’s question. Still, he continues. “Well? I know you, I wouldn’t be standing here if you thought it was me. What do you know?” Harry pauses, drawing to a stoic stop on the sidewalk. He whispers a silent spell before turning to Draco.

“Firstly, you’re right. You do have the most motive out of anyone.” Before Draco can interrupt, Harry raises a hand. “Who is the executor of my will?” He asks, seemingly out of nowhere. Puzzled, Draco responds haltingly. “I am.” Harry nods. “And who is my main beneficiary should I die childless?” Confusion slowly giving way to understanding, Draco breathes out the answer.

“Daphne.”

Harry smiles. “Right in one.” He says simply. “And should Daphne die childless, Astoria is her heir. Meaning your son-” He strides towards Draco and pokes him square in the chest. “-would eventually inherit the Potter estate. We’ve established a motive.” He sticks up one finger from his free hand. “The Malfoy fortune is still quite substantial, despite the hit from the wars. Substantial enough to sway a few votes on the Wizengamot, I’d say. That’s means, right there.” Another finger joins the first. “All that’s left is alibi.” His smile, only minutes ago light and genuine, turns cold under the fluorescent lights.

“From what we learned when we… ‘questioned’ the one survivor from the heist, their services were purchased about a month ago. November twelfth, to be exact. Do you remember where you were on the twelfth Draco?” Harry steps forward until the space between the men is barely enough for the winter wind to swirl through. “Because I sure don’t. In fact, I know where you weren’t. As I recall it, Astoria said you were away on ‘business’ when we came to visit.” Harry’s eyes are avada kedavra green now, dangerous glimmer sending a shiver down Draco’s spine. A third and final, damning finger joins the other two. 

“Any Hit-Wizard worth their salt would say you were guilty. It’s all right there.” Harry’s nonchalant shrug looks wrong somehow, an eerie pantomime that sets Draco even more on edge. “But I, family man that I am, couldn’t believe it! How could my partner, my brother-in-law, a man I consider family, do something so vile?” The black haired man shakes his head in disbelief. Draco is hard pressed to remember that Harry doesn’t in fact believe that he is at fault. 

“So I set about poking holes in my own theory. Means and motive were practically irrefutable, so I left those alone.” The first two fingers remain resolutely in the air. “So I set about giving you an alibi. I, in my effort to exonerate you, did some less than legal things.” His chuckle is insincere. “Traced your magical signature, for one.” Harry scoffs at the horrified look in Draco’s eyes. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy. I’m trying to help you, remember?” At this casual dismissal, Draco cannot stay silent.

“Don’t get my knickers in a twist? You can’t just track people’s magical signatures, it’s immoral, not to mention illegal! That’s the most primitive part of any magical person, you can’t just track it like-” Harry groans with impertinence. “Do you want to know what I found, or not?” At Draco’s grudging nod, Harry continues.

“I tracked it to Manchester, actually. Quite a while from your house in Suffolk, isn’t it? It’s funny, actually-” He gives Draco no time to respond before he goes on. “-I tracked it down to a muggle house.. The home of one Emily Thomson, twenty seven years of age, actually.” Harry begins to pace, body filled with nervous energy as he explains the events of earlier today. “I’m sure you can imagine my confusion! What was Draco Malfoy doing at the home of a muggle woman, hours away from where he lives? So, I went searching. I asked our friends in the muggle law enforcement for a few records, nothing special. “ Harry’s pace picks up now, nearly frantic as he whirls about the sidewalk. “I found out a little more about Ms. Thomson, mainly that she lives with her fiance, William Poole, and her two children, Benjamin and Cassiopeia Thomson. Nothing remarkable right? Only-” Harry’s walk stutters to a close in front of Draco. His hands shake, fingers twitching with palpable excitement. Draco cannot help but compare this image, the frantic Harry hot on the tail of a particularly difficult puzzle, to the partner he knew years ago, the one who- if perhaps mentally unstable-was happy.

He hasn’t seen this Harry in years.

Oblivious to Draco’s inner monologue, Harry continues his theorizing, gesticulating wildly. “-I recognized those names. Benjamin and Cassiopeia. But I couldn’t quite remember-” He thumps his head with one hand. “-quite where I had seen them before!” His voice is hysterical now, fever pitch reverberating down the deserted streets. 

“But! Then, something told me. Motive, Harry! Look at the motive! And what’s the motive- the will! And just as you are the executor of my will, I am of yours. And I’m thinking, I’m thinking- why would the children of this muggle woman be in your will? Where would they be? And then, it hits me!” He raises his hands suddenly, startling Draco; still locked in his memories. “The Malfoy family, with all the connections it has, has hundreds of people entitled to some kind of stipend or other. Nearly every Pureblood family does, me included! Of course, hardly anyone ever bothers to look through them all, far too time consuming, of course. But, I’m not purely trying to clear your name anymore, no! I’m genuinely curious now. So I spend hours at Gringotts, pouring over your will, until I finally find what I’m looking for.”

Harry places his rough hands on Draco’s shoulders, frenetic green eyes meeting reminiscent grey. Harry leans in close, tone quieter if not calmer. “Two names, entitled to a small vault each. Benjamin and Cassiopeia Thomson.” Harry tilts back, rocking back and forth on unsteady feet. “So now I know. These children aren’t muggles- they have a Gringotts vault! I’m on my way to Hogwarts anyway, tea with Minnie, you see, so I convince her to let me see the mailing list for the next couple years. I’m looking of course, for Benjamin and Cassiopeia! I want to know more- how old are they? Why are you providing for them instead of their parents? How do you even know these people? Do you know what I find on the mailing list Draco?” Harry waits patiently for the other man’s answer. He obliges after a pause.

“You found their names on the list for the next couple of years.” It is not a guess, but a confirmation. Harry nods excitedly. “Yes! But more than that. I found their full names-something rarely used in the wizarding world, interestingly enough. Do you know what their full names are Draco?” Draco does not hesitate before answering this time.

“Benjamin Abraxas and Cassiopeia Septima.” Draco says clearly, with something akin to relief. “You would have found Benj on the mailing list for next year, with Cass on the one three years after that.” Harry snaps with excitement. “Bingo!” He says happily. “And you have an alibi. You were visiting your children.” Harry peers at Draco curiously. “They are yours, aren’t they? Those names can’t be a coincidence.”

Draco chuckles sadly. “No, they’re mine. I met their mom not long after the war really picked up. She was, is a muggle- sweet girl. Kind. She didn’t judge or ask questions when we met, just...love. I needed that during the war. Benj was born not long after I met her.” 

“Oh.” Harry breathes, eyes less frantic now. “That’s when you defected to the Order.” Draco nods slowly, caught up in memories from the war. “I knew if anyone were to find about them, it would be all of our deaths. I figured that if I wasn’t doing my best to make sure he grew up in a world where he was safe, I wasn’t doing my job as a father.” He smiles sadly. “Cass was born a few years later. It was still so soon after the war, I couldn’t justify bringing them out to the world in a situation like that. Their mother didn’t like that too much, finally left me for a man who didn’t have to hide her away. Now I can only sneak away every so often to see them; like they’re some kind of dirty secret. I can’t even tell Tori!” Draco’s voice rises in frustration. “Because I’m so used to protecting them by keeping them a secret, and now if I tell her, it looks like I’ve been hiding them for some other nefarious reason! I-I just…” 

He trails off, exhausted by the late hour and his unexpected tirade. Harry lays one heavy hand on his shoulder. “It must be hard.” He utters quietly. “To love someone so much and not be able to tell anyone about them.” Draco snorts derisively. “Yeah. It is.” The blonde buries his head in his hands. Harry, not quite knowing how to offer comfort, settles for the safe route.

“Tell me about them.”

His simple statement draws Draco out of his husk, grey eyes shining brightly at the other man’s words. “Really?” He asks, surprised. “You want to hear about them?” Harry only smiles in response.

The two men stroll off into the inky night, one animatedly babbling about the adventures of one reckless boy and a rather precocious little girl. The smiles on their faces are genuine, placed there by a unadulterated love and affection neither have known for weeks.

(Perhaps if they had been a little less bubbly, a little more wary, they would have noticed the pale brown eyes that illuminated the night behind them.)

 

Daphne Potter is not one to sit around listlessly when trouble comes.

She was not during the Battle of Hogwarts; when she ripped the house crest off of her school robes in order to avoid the evacuation of her housemates and aid in the struggle against Voldemort.

She was not during the fighting; when despite the crackle of deadly spells flying overhead she attended the wounded with a compassion that belied the usual cutthroat ambition of her house.

She was not after the war ended; when she testified against the people who made up her childhood, told a riveted court about the vile exploits they had informed her about doing during the war, oblivious to her disgust.

Daphne Greengrass is no layabout.

Even now, she does not hide away from the world as she so desperately wants to. Contrary to what her family thinks, she has been busy during this time- employing her considerable contacts in a desperate effort to regain her son.. Her days are hazey, from wake up to vomit up the nothing in her stomach to scour through every avenue she can think of to find her child.

The cargo holds under her eyes decry the feeling of fatigue that weighs heavy on her shoulders, like a blanket. She has not seen the familiar white walls of her hospital ward in weeks, she has lost weight, and she would be hard-pressed to recite any of the information her husband has managed to glean since their son’s kidnapping.

All she hears is that they have not found him.

Her emotions are a tumultuous whirlwind, keeping all around her at bay as they bound wildly, taking her to fervent hope to studied silence to destructive terror faster than she can note.

Right now, they have settled on anger.

Quiet, seething, anger.

It is perhaps inevitable that one Harry Potter would stumble into the nest of this viper, half drunk and perfectly ignorant of Daphne’s fury. The clamor inside of his head, for all it’s prophetic qualities, is not impervious to this danger.

An angry wife.

“Where have you been?” Her voice is quiet, deadly so. Harry, partially inebriated as he is, does not pick up on her tone, nor the rigidity of her body. Instead, he can only grin, well aware that this is the most words his wife has uttered to him in weeks.

“It’s Thursday sweetheart. I was with the old crowd-I told you before I left, remember? Hey, are you alright? You don’t look so good.” Daphne brushes away his apparent concern with one pale hand. 

“The old crowd, huh? What, you figured you’d go and get a pint with the boys, pretend everything was a-okay at home? That your only child wasn’t missing, and scared, and waiting for you to step up and do something about it?”

Daphne stands abruptly, knocking over a nearby vase in her haste. Harry’s previously happy face shuts down, a stern line replacing the smile that had inhabited it only moments ago.

“I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I do not love my child, Daphne.” His tone matches hers now, cold and unnerving. “Do not presume to tell me how I should and should not search for him- because make no mistake, I am searching for him, and I will continue to do so until I find him. Besides-” He cocks an eyebrow mockingly. “If anyone is doing nothing to get him back, its you. What have you done, other than sit here and cry?” His words have turned callous and unforgiving almost in an instant. This is no longer the Harry Potter who would bottle up his emotions, only to explode upon the innocent and unsuspecting.

No, this Harry has no time to be nice.

“What have I done? What have I done?” Daphne laughs incredulously. “Are you that daft, that you think you can go about gallivanting through the Underbelly and snoop into ministry and Gringott files without attracting any attention? Did you really think you could threaten people in back alleyways and get away scott free? You are not a Hit-Wizard anymore Harry, people know that your more ‘illicit’ actions aren’t ministry sanctioned. You are not invincible!” Daphne’s hands twitch, as if she wants to slap her husband. “I spent all day cleaning up your mess- it turns out that it is possible for someone to violate at least ten different privacy laws in one day! Who knew?” Daphne throws her hands in the air and laughs shrilly. Harry tenses, frown deeping at his wife’s words.

“You know, I’m really tired of you acting like the world revolves around you Harry. It doesn’t. There are consequences for your actions, you have to learn! I know Dumbledore protected you from the worst of them when he was alive, but that doesn’t mean you can get away with acting like there aren’t any in the real world.” Daphne sighs and sinks to the couch, mood swing already pivoting and sending her into the quiet realm of exhaustion. Harry is not satiated, however, and folds his arms petulantly.

“You know, for someone who hasn’t seen me for more than a couple of hours in the last few days, you sure don’t act happy. I mean, you could learn a lesson or two from Sue. She was sure happy to see me today, although it has been a while- I’ll have to rectify that.” He walks deeper into the living room, all false nonchalance as he waits for Daphne’s reaction.

His only reward is a watery chuckle.

“You’re trying to make me jealous, is that what this is? I tell you you’re being a puerile and spoiled man-child, and your response is to tell me that you saw your ex tonight? Ha!” Her laugh is sharp and unnatural. She stands and stretches, sock clad feet softly padding the floor towards the stairs. She pauses beside the stoic Harry, eyeing him up and down critically.

Judging from her expression, she does not like what she sees.

“I’m not asking much from you. I’m not asking you to change who you are, or turn this whole thing into a witch hunt for anyone who has ever wronged you. I don’t want you to blow to bits anyone who looks at you funny. I just want you to act like a man. That-” She pats his still scarred cheek twice. Her hand is cold and small, cooling his cheeks still flaming with anger. “-is all I want.” Daphne continues up the stairs, tiny body quickly disappearing up the large staircase. Her voice echoes down from the banister when she reaches the top, wisps of blonde hair displaced from the sloppy bun atop her head.

“I’ll be at St. Mungo’s all day tomorrow. Don’t wait up for me.”

She is gone before he can respond.

He is left in her wake, still stock still where she left him at the bottom of the stairs. It is only the chime of the grandfather clock that startles him, enabling him to traipse down the hall to the linen closet and begin making his bed on the couch Daphne had just evacuated. As he settles himself down to sleep, he is struck by the thought that perhaps his wife is not far off in her estimates of his character.

He dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes.

Unsurprisingly.

He drifts off eventually, green eyes fluttering closed to the soft sounds of early morning. On the mantle, a couple waltz under a starry background, picture frame bound selves oblivious to the trouble their counterparts face.

They are an uncompromising duo, neither willing to give an inch.

This is the unstoppable force.

And here is its immovable object.


End file.
